Sunday, 9 March 2008

Sounds like the nameof some scabby old manthe kind you are convincednever had a motherBorn into acne scarsand bruisesshades of rememberingplanted on his bodyIf he opens the doorhe opens it all the wayhinges forgetting to creakin the violent surgeTempted by the ideathat it is still possibleto love somethingthat means to harm youyou accept the invitationand are never seen again